


parking lots & playgrounds after dark

by wiitts



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Coming Out, Gen, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Minor canon divergence, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 01:43:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20519903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiitts/pseuds/wiitts
Summary: Dick gets the call just after nine-thirty.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags, additional spoiler warnings available in the end notes.
> 
> Title is from Tennessee by High Dive.
> 
> Edit: I will be writing a second chapter due to popular demand. Thank you so so much to everyone who commented and asked for more! I will get around to replying as soon as I can <3

The call comes in just past nine-thirty. Dick, who arrived home not ten minutes ago, takes his sweet time before answering it. It’s on his personal line, and the absence of a blinking red light tells him that it isn’t an emergency, so Dick figures it can wait a ring or two while he drinks his orange juice.

When Dick does grab his phone, an unknown number with a Bludhaven area code flashes across the screen. Dick debates whether or not to pick up for another half-ring before finally hitting the answer button.

“Hello?” he says, only to be greeted by the static-crackle of a bad connection. He waits a few seconds for it to clear before repeating himself.

“Dick?” comes a tinny voice on the other end. “I - it’s Tim. I’m in Bludhaven, can you come pick me up?”

“Tim?” Dick’s eyebrows shoot up. What was Tim doing in Bludhaven? “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Tim answers, too fast and shaky to be the truth. It raises red flags in Dick’s head. “Can you - can you come get me?”

“Yeah, of course,” Dick says automatically. “Where are you?”

“Um -” There’s a shuffling noise, like Tim is turning his head to look around. “West and… and Miranda? I’m at a - a bus stop.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

The sound of Tim exhaling is quiet and staticky in Dick’s ear. “Thank you,” he says, and the fact that Tim actually sounds _ relieved _ makes Dick’s stomach turn.

Dick hangs up, grabs his coat off the hook, and slips his shoes on without bothering to do up the laces.

On the drive over, Dick does some quick math in his head. If Tim had taken the bus from Gotham, it would have taken him just under two hours to get to Bludhaven, putting his departure time at around seven-thirty, eight-ish. It was well before patrol, but maybe Tim had gotten into an argument with Bruce after dinner? Dick had had his fair share of fights with Bruce back when he was Tim’s age, even some that had resulted in him storming off to Titans Tower to cool off. But then again, Tim was as stubborn as Bruce was, and Dick had a hard time imagining him backing down and taking off so easily.

Maybe Bruce had threatened to take Robin away. That would explain why Tim was so shaky, and why his first response would be to go to Dick. If Bruce was spiraling again, back to convincing himself he was better off alone in the same way he’d been after - after Jason, then it made sense for Tim to reach out to Dick like he had back then. Bruce had seemed alright when Dick had visited Gotham a few weeks ago - lips twitching in his version of a smile while talking about Tim’s progress, hugging Dick back just as hard as they said goodbye - but Dick knew from experience how quickly Bruce could fall into a tailspin of depression and hopelessness. 

Before Dick knows it, he’s pulled up to the bus stop. Tim is standing in the shelter, wearing a sweater with the hood up and a pair of old jeans.

“_Christ_, Tim,” Dick exclaims when Tim slides into the passenger seat. “You must be freezing.”

It’s early October, but a cold snap’s spread across Bludhaven, leaving windows frosted and breath visible in the chilled air. There hasn’t been any snow yet, but Dick wouldn’t be surprised if they got some in the next week or so.

Dick unbuckles his seatbelt, awkwardly shrugging off his jacket in the cramped car. He practically throws it at Tim, reaching over to tuck it like a blanket under Tim’s chin.

“I’m _ fine_, Dick,” Tim mumbles, ducking his head away from Dick.

“Right.” Dick clicks his tongue, dubious. Tim is shivering, his teeth chattering audibly. Dick cranks the heat as high as it can go.

Dick can’t help but glance at Tim over and over as they drive. He’s turned away, staring out the window with his hood still up. He hasn’t said anything aside from his initial response, and Dick is hesitant to push him, especially in a confined space.

By the time they get to Dick's apartment, Tim hasn’t opened his mouth once. He ushers Tim through the door first, locking it once they both get inside.

Tim stands awkwardly in the middle of Dick’s living room. He still has Dick’s jacket slung over him, and with his shoulders hunched, it makes him look small.

“Do you want anything?” Dick asks, if only to break the nervous quiet between them. “A snack? Something hot to drink?”

Tim shakes his head without lifting it.

Dick worries at his bottom lip. He does his best to swallow down the panic that’s building in his chest. “Alright.”

He walks further in, leans against the kitchen counter where it peaks out between his overstuffed couch and the TV stand.

“So,” Dick starts, “you wanna tell me what you’re doing out here on a school night?”

Tim, somehow, manages to make himself smaller than he already is. Dick immediately regrets his joke. His fingers curl around the edge of the counter as he waits for Tim to speak.

And, after what has to be at least a minute and a half of silence, Tim does.

“My dad kicked me out.”

Dick jolts. “What? Why would he do that?”

Dick’s head is reeling. He hadn’t been expecting that. He - he can’t even imagine how Tim’s dad could have _ kicked him out _ . For all of Dick’s fights with Bruce over the years, Bruce had never once told Dick _ leave and never come back_. Even when they were fighting about Robin - and then, about Jason, years later - it had always been implicit that, no matter how bad things were between them, Dick would always have a place, a _ home_, at the Manor.

God, Dick hadn’t even been _ aware _ that Tim’s dad was home. Dick knew shockingly little about Tim’s home life - a fact that he was now ashamed of. Jack Drake traveled a lot for - business or something? - and Tim spent hours and hours alone in a massive house with a single housekeeper who wasn’t even there most of the time. Dick knew Bruce and Alfred were making him stay at the Manor when his dad was away, but that didn’t mean much now.

Dick should have been paying more attention. Maybe Tim had Bruce and Alfred, but Bruce had the emotional range of a teaspoon, and Alfred’s main tactic was passive patience - which, evidently, hadn’t been the correct course for _ this_.

“Tim,” Dick tries again while pushing down the hundreds of _ what-if _ ’s flying through his head. His heart is pounding in his chest, a _ thud-thud-thud _ that seems to echo in his bones. He takes a step towards Tim, making sure the floorboards creak and that he’s still far enough away that Tim won’t feel suffocated. “What happened?”

Tim is shaking, and Dick doesn’t think it’s from being cold. His face is still hidden by his hood and he has his arms wrapped around himself. Dick can hear the quiet hiccup-hitch of his breath.

“Hey -” Dick moves closer before he can stop himself. He puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder. Tim flinches, and Dick jerks away like he’s been burned.

“Tim,” his voice is soft and low. “Whatever it is, it’s okay. I just wanna help.”

It’s quiet again, except for the quiet stutter of Tim’s breathing. Each inhale makes Dick’s pulse race faster.

“I -” Tim chokes. He breathes through his mouth for a moment, trying to calm down. “I kissed a boy behind the bleachers at school and he found out.”

Before Dick even realizes that he’s moved, his arms are wrapped around Tim. Tim presses his face into Dick’s shoulder and lets out a sob.

“Oh, _ Tim _ .” Dick rubs his back in slow circles. “You - he shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't have kicked you out, Tim, _ God_.”

Tim is trembling in his arms, and it takes a moment for Dick to realize that he is, too.

Dick knows the statistics. He’s a cop and a vigilante, for god’s sake - he’s seen first hand the overcrowded youth shelters, defensive kids on street corners, but he’d never thought that it would happen to _ Tim_.

He thinks about all the times on patrol he’s come across girls holding hands being followed and spat at, kids with rainbow wristbands lying bruised on the ground and flinching when Nightwing had reached down to help them up. The thought of _ any _of those being Tim makes Dick want to cry.

“It’s okay,” Dick soothes. He pulls Tim's hood down so he can card a hand through Tim’s hair. “It’s okay.”

Dick closes his eyes and tries to choke down the lump that’s formed in his throat. He crushes Tim even closer against his chest as Tim cries jerky, quiet sobs like he’s trying to get himself to stop.

“There is absolutely _ nothing _ wrong with that, Tim,” Dick tells him. “There is nothing wrong with you kissing boys.”

Tim shakes his head against Dick's shoulder, and Dick's heart hurts even more.

“Timmy - come on, buddy, look at me.” Tim resists for a moment, but Dick manages to loosen Tim's grip enough so that he can pull back, and -

A livid bruise stands out across Tim's face, arcing across his left cheek and down towards his jaw. His bottom lip is split and swollen, and Dick can see a hint of dried blood on his chin.

All the hurt inside Dick solidifies into rage.

“Tim -” Dick’s voice is shaking. He tightens his grip on Tim’s shoulders, reminding himself that Tim is here with him and safe - except, apparently, fucking _ not_. “Did - did he hit you?”

Tim’s chest moves unevenly as he breathes. He nods without looking at Dick. One hand comes up to wipe at his eye, and Dick can see Tim pressing down into the bruise there.

“Hey - Tim, sweetheart, don’t do that -” Dick grabs at Tim’s wrist, gently tugs it away from his face so he isn’t hurting himself. Dick takes hold of Tim’s hand and guides them both to the couch.

He pulls Tim in close to him, tucking Tim's head under his chin. Tim's sobs have mostly tapped off into slight hitches. He's still crying, though, tears running down his face and soaking into the uniform shirt Dick had never changed out of.

Dick can't speak, not even soothing nonsense to try and calm Tim down. His throat feels tight and he is so, so angry.

He's never understood how any parent could hurt their kid. The fact that Jack Drake had kicked Tim out, had _ hit _ him, over - what? Kissing a boy? Being gay? - made Dick want to hurt him.

Tim shifts a little against Dick, moving so he can wrap his arms around Dick. Dick presses his cheek against Tim's head and breathes, counting out each inhale and exhale.

Dick is too much of a coward to ask Tim if this is the first time Jack has ever hurt him. He's afraid that the answer will be yes, and that he's failed as an older brother _ again_. If the answer is yes, Dick doesn't know if he'll be able to stop himself from confronting Jack.

Tim makes a small noise. Dick pulls away slightly to look at him.

“Don't…” Tim starts, his voice hoarse. His eyes don't quite meet Dick's gaze. “Don't you have patrol tonight?”

Dick brushes the hair off of Tim's forehead. He hates that Tim feels the need to ask that. “I think Bludhaven can survive a night without me, Timmy.”

Tim's face pinches, and Dick can't help but smooth his thumb over the crease between his brows.

“Come on, kiddo, let's head to bed, okay?”

Dick changes into a worn pair of sweats and a t-shirt, giving Tim a similar set of pajamas to change into. After they crawl into bed Dick goes right back to wrapping his arms around Tim, as though Tim will somehow slip away if Dick stops clinging to him.

Tim's forehead is pressed against Dick's shoulder. Dick rubs a thumb across the back of Tim's neck, over the soft skin there and the bump of bone underneath.

“There’s - there’s nothing wrong with you, Tim.” Dick's already said this, but he needs to say it again - as many times as it takes in order for Tim to understand. "There’s nothing wrong with you kissing boys. If - if you’re gay, or experimenting, it doesn’t matter because there is absolutely _ nothing _ wrong with that."

“Okay,” Tim whispers after a moment. His voice is thick and scratchy, but Dick thinks, maybe, Tim is starting to believe him.

It doesn’t take long for Tim to fall asleep. Dick stays tucked up next to him, listening to his even breaths. In the dim light, the bruise across his face looks more like a shadow, if you ignore the swelling, and Dick can almost pretend that - for a moment - everything is okay.

Almost.

There are things Dick should be doing right now. Cop things, like taking down the time and severity of injury. Vigilante things, like digging through secured medical files, security footage that isn't supposed to exist.

But Dick isn’t thinking with cop-brain or vigilante-brain, right now. He’s thinking with big brother-brain.

He grabs his phone off the bedside table and slips as carefully as he can out of bed. Tim, as exhausted as he is, doesn't even stir.

Dick should probably leave the room so he doesn't risk waking Tim, but the thought of taking his eyes off Tim for even a second makes anxiety curl in his gut. Instead, Dick stands in the doorway, watching the rise and fall of Tim’s chest, the slow patterns of headlights from cars driving by. He doesn’t bother flipping through his contacts, just goes straight to dialing the number with clumsy, shaking fingers. 

Dick presses his forehead to the door frame, and waits for Bruce to pick up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings for discussions of homelessness, and for violence directed at LGBTQ+ people.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same as before with additional warnings available in the end notes. I would also like to draw attention to the “internalized homophobia” tag, because that is something very present in this chapter.
> 
> The minor canon divergence comes into play more here, but it’s small and hopefully won’t be too confusing.
> 
> I have no self control so now there are four chapters currently planned. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy <3

Tim stares out the window, watching the stretch of highway morph into side streets, breaking up further into business districts and residential areas. His face feels tight and puffy from all the crying he’d done last night and earlier that morning, in the privacy of Dick’s bathroom with the tap turned on so that Dick wouldn’t hear.

A line of townhouses pass by, and Tim wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

Flashes of yesterday keep flickering in Tim’s head, like frames in between static on an old TV: the rush and nerves of huddling on the grass beneath the bleachers, a face so close to his and the warmth of an exhaled laugh. How that warmth had followed him home, settling in his bones until his dad -

His dad.

Everything that had happened felt so unreal. If not for the throbbing bruise and the fact that Tim is in the passenger seat of Dick’s car, making the hour-long trip from Bludhaven to Gotham - to _ Wayne Manor _ \- Tim would have thought it was all a bad dream; an accumulation of his worst fears and anxieties.

Tim’s bruised face looks at back at him in the side-view mirror. He doesn’t quite have a black eye, but it’s a near thing - almost black at the top of his cheek bone and spreading out purple and blue. Tim fights the urge to press into it, feel the ache of burst blood vessels beneath the skin. The heavy weight of Dick’s gaze keeps Tim’s hand pinned in place.

_ I called Bruce last night_, Dick had told Tim over breakfast not an hour ago.

Tim had stopped breathing then and there. His spoon had clattered in his bowl of dry cereal as his hand went nerveless and numb.

“I didn't tell him anything,” Dick was quick to assure him. Dick reached out and grabbed Tim’s hand where it was still hovering in the air, lowering it to the table and squeezing it. “Bruce isn’t - it’s not going to change the way he thinks about you. It doesn’t matter to him.”

Tim had shaken his head. His chest was starting to go tight, his head pounding in time to his heart.

“You don’t have to tell him, if you’re not comfortable,” Dick had tried again. It was a nice thought, but Tim really didn’t believe Bruce would accept _ my dad kicked me out _ without any explanation.

“Tim” Dick had said, almost desperate. His face was pinched, almost pained. His thumb rubbed circles on the back of Tim’s hand, soothing and grounding at once. “I can’t do this by myself.”

A sudden, vicious anger pulsed through Tim. He snatched his hand back and snapped, “You do it all the time in costume.”

Dick winced, and Tim immediately felt guilty at his wounded expression. But Tim’s mouth had disconnected itself to his brain at that moment, and Tim couldn’t make an apology leave his throat.

Quietly, Dick had said, “It’s different. You know it is.”

Tim had to look away and swallow back his tears. He hadn’t said much else to Dick after that. Not at Dick’s scuffed dining room table and not now, in the car seat next to him.

They pass through the smooth, winding streets of Bristol, but it isn’t until the car starts to slow does Tim realize how close they are to the Manor. The sick lurch of his heart in his throat forces Tim to actively regulate his breath so he doesn’t choke on it.

“Tim,” Dick says after they pull into the gate. “Everything’s going to be fine, okay? I know - I know you don’t believe me, but. Bruce isn’t… he’s not like your dad.”

Tim swallows. His throat is so tight and dry that he barely manages to whisper, “Okay,” in response to Dick’s gentle reassurances.

Tim practically drags his feet once he gets out of the car, but Dick isn’t having any of that. He curls a hand around Tim’s wrist and guides him to the door, forcing him to pick up the pace. With the way Tim’s heart is pounding, he’s reminded of the first time he had stood there - clutching a handful of photographs that he had never shown anyone before, terrified and determined at once. Tim is equally as terrified now as he had been back then, but for a far different reason.

Alfred opens the door, and Tim freezes.

Tim, in his dread over Bruce and lingering panic over Dad, had forgotten about Alfred. Dick seemed to have the utmost confidence in Bruce, and maybe, _ maybe _ Tim could half-believe that Bruce wouldn’t hate him, wouldn’t fire him as Robin and yell at him and _ hurt _ him like Dad had, but _ Alfred _-

Alfred had always been so kind to Tim, and even in his reprimands was never unnecessarily harsh or cruel. And now Tim was going to ruin it, and Alfred was going to hate him and Tim knew that he would deserve it.

Dick puts a hand between Tim’s shoulder blades and gives him a light push. It’s not even enough to make Tim stumble, but Tim still flinches away from the touch and walks through the doorway. The door closes behind them, effectively trapping Tim in. His heart ticks faster as the reality of facing Bruce draws closer and closer.

Dick and Alfred are talking, but Tim can’t quite focus on anything they’re saying, only catching bits and pieces. Tim’s head feels cotton-stuffed, and when he looks down the floor seem further away than it usually does.

It occurs to Tim that Alfred hasn’t said anything about the glaringly obvious bruise on his face, has barely even looked at it. Tim wonders if Dick had warned Bruce that Tim was hurt, and Bruce in turn had told Alfred, just so they wouldn’t freak out when they saw him. A small, bitter part in the back of Tim’s head starts to wonder if Dick had actually lied to him and told Bruce everything. He’s pretty sure Dick wouldn’t, but the threat of it sends another wave of panic through Tim’s chest.

“Would you like something to eat, Master Tim?” The sound of his own name snaps Tim out of his thoughts. “Some tea, perhaps?”

“I - no thanks, Alfred,” Tim stutters out. He feels a prick of pressure at the back of his eyes, and makes himself look away.

“Master Bruce is in his study,” Alfred informs them. “If you’d like to speak with him now.”

“Thanks, Alfie,” Dick says. “We’ll go now.”

Tim trails behind Dick, who’s still holding onto his wrist. Tim feels almost hyper-aware of everything as they pass through the familiar halls - the drag of his socks against the hardwood, the delicately carved baseboard, and the lines of late-morning light streaked across the walls and floor. It’s the same sort of adrenaline that Tim feels when he’s out as Robin - eyes wide beneath his mask, taking in every cracked window and raised voice. It’s useful then, but not so much now.

They’re nearing the stretch of hallway where Bruce’s study is when Dick starts to ask, “Do you -”

“I’ll be okay,” Tim is quick to cut him off. It’s a blatant lie. Dick and Bruce’s relationship is still so fragile from the aftermath of Jason, and Tim is sure that Dick seeing Bruce tear into him would ruin everything that they had managed to rebuild. Besides, Tim doesn’t think he could handle the shame of having Dick there when it happens.

Alfred, on the other hand…

“Can you -” Tim starts and has to clear his throat with how thick it feels. “Tell - tell Alfred for me. Please.”

He tucks around the corner before Dick can say anything.

The heavy wooden door of Bruce’s study is cracked open just the slightest bit, the way it always is unless Bruce is taking an important call. It was a silent invitation, one that had taken Tim more time than he’d like to get used to.

Tim has never had to knock before. He wonders if he should now, if it’s better or worse to act like nothing’s wrong before what little stability left in his life completely falls apart. Instead he just hovers, staring at the carved wood and the speckled grain, the eye-level dent that had been there longer than Tim had, and would continue to be.

“Tim?” Bruce’s voice calls from inside.

Tim jumps, his heart jerking back into its rabbit-fast pace. His hand is shaking as he pushes the door open, revealing Bruce sitting at his solid mahogany desk. He’s wearing his reading glasses, a stack of WE paperwork in front of him and his laptop open to his left. It’s a position Tim has seen him in countless times, whenever Tim had come to the Manor after school and laid out on the floor of the study to do his homework, chatting to Bruce the whole time.

This is probably the last time Tim is going to be in here. He blinks rapidly against the wetness building in his eyes.

Bruce smiles at him, a strained, half-twitch of his mouth. His gaze flicks to the side, to the black-blue-purple on Tim’s face. “How was the drive over?” he asks. 

“Fine,” Tim answers quietly.

Bruce shuffles his papers into a neat pile. He takes off his reading glasses, setting them down on the desk. “Why don’t we go down to the den?” Bruce offers. “We can talk there.”

Tim nods. He turns and heads down the hall without waiting for Bruce. His hands are shaking, and Tim puts them into the pockets of his hoodie, curling them into fists. He gets to the den and settles down on the overstuffed leather couch, the one he’s sat on a handful of times with Dick to watch movies or trashy soap operas. It’s definitely cozier than the study is, but in a way it makes Tim feel more exposed. There are no distractions in den, the way there are in the study, just the couch and armchairs, the TV and a few framed photos on the wall. A few of them have Tim in them, and two are ones that Tim himself had taken. He wonders if Bruce will end up getting rid of them.

Bruce comes in and sits in the dark leather armchair, moving it slightly so that he’s facing Tim directly. Tim feels no small amount relief at the distance between them.

“Tim,” Bruce says. “What happened?”

Before he can stop himself, Tim blurts, “Did Dick tell you?”

Bruce gives him an unreadable look, shifting minutely. He leans forward a little. “Dick told me you were in Bludhaven with him. He said that something had happened and you were injured, but not severely -” his eyes move across Tim’s face in that same subtle way they had back in the study. “He was adamant that you would explain as much as you were comfortable with, and I didn’t press him.”

Tim licks his dry lips. “Oh,” he says. Some of the tension leaches out of him.

Bruce doesn’t say anything. Tim swallows, trying to force his heart down his throat and back into his chest. He digs his nails into his palms, and sucks in a breath.

“My dad kicked me out.”

Bruce, unlike Dick, doesn’t burst out with disbelief. He doesn’t say anything, and Tim wants to think that Bruce’s hands tighten into fists, that a muscle in his jaw tenses as he grits his teeth together. Anger, not at Tim but for him. On his behalf.

But Tim can’t bring himself to look anywhere near Bruce, and all of that is probably just wistful thinking, anyway.

“I -” His throat feels like it’s closing shut. He breathes and swallows around the tightness, trying to will the words into coming out. _ Just get it over with _, he berates himself. Like ripping off a bandaid, or setting a broken bone.

“I kissed a boy,” Tim finally admits. “And - and my dad kicked me out.” The last part comes out choked.

Saying it again doesn’t make it feel any more real. It doesn’t bring Tim any sense of relief, not that he was hoping it would, but at the same time it doesn’t hurt like it had last night. Tim just feels numb, inside and out. Even his bruise, which gave a steady throb of pain whenever he moved his face, felt muted.

Tim hears the creak of worn leather as Bruce stands. He tenses, doesn't risk breathing as Bruce walks towards him. He doesn't think Bruce will hurt him, but then again he didn't think his dad would, either.

Bruce kneels in front of him, and Tim, who still can't bring himself to lift his gaze, sees Bruce's pressed pants and the bottom of his grey sweater. Bruce is far enough away that Tim could get up and leave without any hindrance. He doesn't try to touch Tim, doesn't ask for him to look up, both things Tim is immensely grateful for.

When Bruce speaks, his voice is low and gentle. “Tim. I'm going to ask you some questions, if that's alright. You don't have to answer them if you don't want to.”

Not answering is a nice sentiment, but Tim knows that Bruce won’t take _ i don’t want to talk about it _as a final response. The truth would get out anyway, one way or another.

Bruce doesn't say anything else, and Tim realizes he's waiting for confirmation. Tim nods stiffly.

“Alright,” Bruce says, like he's pleased, even though the only thing Tim did was give him a bare-bones barley answer. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Tim had tripped on the porch steps as he was running out of the house. His left knee was bruised and sore, but that had been Tim’s own clumsiness. Besides, Tim knew that wasn’t what Bruce was really asking.

“No,” Tim answers in an attempt to seem even a little less pathetic. Bruce is treating him like a victim, like all of the scared crying kids and bruised trembling adults they see and try to help with every night on the streets. Part of Tim wants to rage and scream and part of him wants to cry over how gently Bruce is treating him.

“Did your father hurt you?”

Tim's throat gets tighter and he loses his voice not a minute after finding it. He nods, doing his best to blink back the tears that well up in his eyes, even though Tim knows Bruce will be able to see them anyway.

There’s a pause before Bruce speaks again. It’s slight - just a second or so of lag, breaking up the pace of his interrogation. Not many people would notice it, but Tim does.

“Has anything like this ever happened before?” Bruce asks.

The answer to that was more complicated.

Dad had never - never _ hit _ him, before. It had been an unpleasant surprise when Tim had seen his dad’s hand raise in front of him. Tim had seen it coming and hadn't made any attempt to avoid it, because he had known that he deserved it.

But.

Tim had had a childhood filled with bruised wrists from being grabbed too tight, had developed an uneasy balance from his dad's hand pushing too hard between his shoulder blades. It had mostly stopped after Mom had left and then died, but that was largely because Dad had stopped touching him altogether.

Once, when he was a kid, his parents had been arguing and Dad had been so angry that he’d thrown a vase, and Tim had been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. It had shattered against Tim’s back.

He remembers it vividly: his parents staring down at him in stunned silence as Tim cried on the floor.

Not two hours after Tim had been admitted to the hospital Mom had been on a plane to Argentina. Dad had stayed with him, though, had driven them home and sat on a chair next to Tim’s bed as Tim had fallen asleep. But when Tim had woke up the next morning, he’d been gone, too.

So, Tim says, “No.” A half-truth.

It’s quiet again, no sound except for the muted _ tick tick _of the analogue clock hanging on the wall. Tim should - he should be looking at Bruce, meeting his eye, or at the very least watching him, his expression, his posture, so that Tim can steel himself for whatever else Bruce is going to say.

“Tim.” His voice is so soft that it barely disturbs the room’s near-silence. “Can I touch you?”

Suddenly, Tim becomes very aware that he’s shaking all over. He wraps his arms around himself as tight as he can, presses his tongue between his teeth so that they don’t click together. He nods, a jerky motion of his neck and chin.

Carefully, Bruce puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder. Tim can’t stop himself from leaning into it, because Bruce’s hand is warm and solid, and Tim desperately needs something to ground him.

“Tim,” Bruce says, soft but firm, “I want you to know that this doesn’t change the way any of us feel about you - not me, and not Dick or Alfred. There is _ nothing _ wrong with you, Tim.”

Tim swallows. It was so easy for Bruce to say that, for Dick to, when they didn’t understand. Tim had always known, even before he _ knew _ that he was - that he -

Tim had always known that he was different. Always known that he didn’t quite _fit in_ with his peers. He had always been alien, in some way. Wrong. It had just taken him a long time to understand why he was.

“I don’t -” Tim chokes when he can breathe again. “I don’t want you to do anything.”

“Tim -”

“He’s already - he doesn’t want me. He isn’t going to fight you for anything, so you don’t - there’s nothing you have to do.” 

Bruce’s face is pinched, brow creased and mouth pressed into a hard, firm line. He looks older than Tim is used to him looking, the late-morning light streaming in and highlighting the faint grey streaked in his hair, the creases around his eyes.

“_Please_,” Tim is practically begging; he feels pathetic, and he hates himself for it. “It’s not worth it. I just - I just want it to be over.”

Tim chokes on a sob. He realizes that tears are streaming down his face, hot and wet. Gently, Bruce guides Tim into his chest and wraps his arms around Tim’s shoulders. Tim can’t stop himself from clinging to Bruce, pressing his face against Bruce’s collar bone and fisting his pressed dress shirt.

“Okay,” Bruce says in his ear. “okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings for a child abuse victim blaming themselves, self-loathing, and minor thoughts of self-harm.


End file.
